Tick. How, man, twenty Crowns!
Pet. Ay, Signior, thereabouts.
Tick. Twenty Crowns!—Why, ‘tis a Sum, a Portion, a Revenue.
Pet. Alas, Signior, ‘tis nothing with her,—she’ll look it out in an hour,—ah, such an Eye, so sparkling, with an amorous Twire—Then, Sir— she’ll kiss it out in a moment,—such a Lip, so red, so round, so plump, so soft, and so—
Tick. Why, has she, has she, Sirrah—hah—here, here, prithee take money, here, and make no words on’t—go, go your way, go—But to entertain Sir Signal with other matter, pray send his Masters to him; if thou canst help him to Masters, and me to Mistresses, thou shalt be the good Genius of us both: but see where he comes—
Enter Sir Signal.
Sir Sig. Hah! Signior Illustrissimo Barberacho, let me hug thee, my little Miphistophiloucho—de ye see here, how fine your Brokering Jew has made me, Signior Rabbi Manaseth—Ben—Nebiton, and so forth; hah— view me round— [Turns round.
Tick. I profess ‘tis as fit as if it had been made for you.
Sir Sig. Made for me—Why, Sir, he swore to me by the old Law, that ’.was never worn but once, and that but by one High-German Prince—I have forgot his name—for the Devil can never remember a fart these dam’d Hogan-Mogan Titles.
Tick. No matter, Sir.